


DulcimerGecko's Tumblr snippits

by DulcimerGecko



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Classic Cars, Drabble Collection, Gen, Humor, John Watson's coat, Kissing, M/M, Pants, Praise Kink, Scent Kink, Smut, Socks, Writing Exercise, wikipedia - Freeform, writing prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2890424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DulcimerGecko/pseuds/DulcimerGecko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic bits and pieces posted on Tumblr that are/were inspired by comments, requests, photos and other things that caught my fancy, such as folks complaining about the lack of smut in their inboxes...</p>
<p>If you're looking for Rodeo!lock snippets, they've been moved to their own collection: 'Rodeo!lock Miscellany'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Mild scent erotica as promised" for FuckYeah Fight!lock/PoppyAlexander

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/gifts), [songlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/gifts), [venvephe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/gifts), [PharaonicWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PharaonicWolf/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Twinnings…English Breakfast…” Sherlock murmured, wrapping his tongue around the tip of of John’s left index finger and suckling it gently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was prompted by FuckYeah Fight!lock's "Aww. Look at my empty, smut-free Ask box. I SAID LOOK AT IT. I hope you're happy with what you've done." And then she gave me permission to play. So I did.

"Twinnings...English Breakfast..." Sherlock murmured, wrapping his tongue around the tip of John's left index finger and suckling it gently.  He released it with a soft 'pop' and grazed his teeth down the side of John's hand, before burying his nose in the hollow of John's calloused palm.  "Marks and Spencer 3 in 1 Hand, Nail and Cuticle Cream," he rumbled, his warm breath making John's stutter.  "Borrowed-not yours-though the botanical extracts compliment your base scent."  He shifted again, trailing his nose down John's wrist, over his bare thigh, and nuzzling into his groin.  "You," he murmured, as John groaned above him, "just you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you spot typos, please let me know. [I'm on Tumblr as "DulcimerGecko"](http://dulcimergecko.tumblr.com/) or you can find me on [livejournal as "dulcimer_gecko." ](http://dulcimer-gecko.livejournal.com/) Thanks!


	2. "Oral fixation" for FuckYeah Fight!lock/PoppyAlexander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As orally-fixated as Sherlock is, John’s not surprised that he enjoys kissing.
> 
> What surprised him was the breadth and creativity of Sherlock’s kisses...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because FuckYeah Fight!lock posted: "Porn preference: IN MY ASK BOX AHEM."

As orally-fixated as Sherlock is, John’s not surprised that he enjoys kissing.

What surprised him was the breadth and _creativity_ of Sherlock’s kisses.

Little teasing nips on the tips of his fingers and toes.

Quick, teasing pecks on the tip of his nose.

Feathery light kisses over John’s forehead, ghosting along his hairline and trailing down his jaw.

Soft, nuzzling kisses to his belly.

Slow, languid trailing of his tongue over John’s trapezii, with special attention to the gloriously-textured starburst on the left shoulder that led them to each other.

Slow, sucking kisses on his ears, setting thousands of nerve endings alive.

Red-blooming bruises from his lips on John’s hips and the insides of his thighs.

The teasing crest of teeth and the drag of that pouty lower lip across his buttocks and down over his quadriceps.

Pursed lips ghosting along his sternum and along his throat.

Deep, wet kisses with copious amounts of tongue: lips mashed together in a hot slide of breath and saliva.

Kisses with an with an edge of teeth on his nipples, before being smoothed with the flat of his tongue.

Chaste pecks on John’s feet where they were ticklish.  

Truly filthy wet, open-mouthed, sucking kisses on his glans and perineum.

Gentle, licking kisses on his balls and along his adductors.

Darting kisses with flashes of tongue along his shaft and teasing his hole.

As if Sherlock was a starving man, and the taste of John’s skin on his lips and tongue from kissing was the only sustenance he’d ever need.  


	3. "Beautiful Darkness" casefic snippet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casefic idea snippet inspired by the cover of Fabien Vehlmann's graphic novel "Beautiful Darkness".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Response to FuckYeah Fight!lock's 20-minute writing sprints challenge.

“It’s a weird one, Sherlock,” Lestrade continued, surrendering the folder and envelopes he’d been gripping tightly. His expression was tight, a grimace that spoke of a case that had hit a nerve.

“So you normally say,” Sherlock replied absently, popping the envelope’s seal and pulling out the stack of photographs it contained. “Interesting…” he murmured, tilting his head to look at the top one. He blinked several times, and John’s eyebrows rose at the undisguised interest.

Curious, John set his mug aside and walked over to peer over Sherlock’s right shoulder. The detective obligingly tilted the images so that John could get a closer look.

The photographs were bleak: a little girl lay on her back in a bed of leaves, her blond hair feathered out in a halo around her round face. Her blue cardigan was neatly buttoned, her pink dress was modestly covering her legs, and her brown galoshes were remarkably clean. A brown satchel lay beside her, the flap closed, but something, a pencil, perhaps? was sticking out from the side.

Frowning, John leaned closer, plucking the top image and ignoring Sherlock’s huff of irritation. “What are those things?” he asked, pointing at something poking out of one of the girl’s boots. “The little specks?” He shifted uncomfortably, tilting his head to get a closer look. “They’re sticking out of her eyes…and nose…”

Sherlock flipped to the last image, a close-up of a tiny, thread-wrapped figure. “ _Muñecas quitapenas_?” Sherlock replied, the rising inflection at the end of his comment making it a question, rather than a statement.

“And now you know why I’m here,” Lestrade said unnecessarily.


	4. "John Watson's Jacket of Holding"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has [John] got in its pocketses, precious?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because [fuckyeahfight!lock](http://fuckyeahfightlock.tumblr.com/) said to hit her up with headcannons...

John keeps at least three tampons tucked into an inner jacket pocket at all times, along with an EpiPen, two pairs of zip ties, a granola bar, two nicotine patches, and a pack of HALO Seals. The HALO Seals were a gift from Mike after John’s first month as Sherlock’s roommate. The tampons to plug bullet wounds are a trick learned during rotation, and the granola bar is insurance against crashing blood sugar, whether his own, or a certain idiot genius’s.


	5. "Praise kink" for songlin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jesus…_ The thought drifted through John’s mind like a leaf on a gentle breeze. A moment later, it was joined by its friend: ‘fucking’. Followed shortly afterwards by ‘Christ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because [songlin](http://songlinwrites.tumblr.com/) wrote "i am going to bed. i would like to wake up to all the smut fics you have featuring praise kink. i want john telling sherlock he’s so good, he’s doing so well, he’s amazing, he’s gorgeous. givvvvve yes? i am still so sad and lacking this thing.." And I couldn't ignore an appeal like that!

~*~

_Jesus…_ The thought drifted through John’s mind like a leaf on a gentle breeze. A moment later, it was joined by its friend: ‘fucking’. Followed shortly afterwards by ‘Christ’ 

_Or maybe,_ John thought, as he blinked slowly at the ceiling, _he should be thinking Sherlock fucking Holmes, except then that would mean that he, himself, wouldn't have been there, and he wanted very much to be there again. Repeatedly. So perhaps,_ he thought blearily, _he should be thinking Sherlock Fucking John, or Watson Fucking Holmes or Holmes Fucking Watson…or pretty much any of the number of things that he’d recently finished experiencing at Sherlock’s dexterous fingers, and agile tongue and, and, and…_ His thoroughly satiated cock gave a half-hearted twitch at the memories invoked, before it was covered by Sherlock’s right hand, gentle as a butterfly’s wing on the sensitive skin.

“Mpffh,” John attempted, tongue thick and slow in his mouth.

“Yes?”

“You…’mazing,” John told him earnestly, or at least as earnestly as he was able to, still blissed out on endorphins, from his boneless sprawl across the dark blue fabric of Sherlock’s Egyptian cotton bed sheets.

This garnered him a warm, slow, and very smug smile. “Oh?” Sherlock asked, his voice a warm, deep purr. “Your annunciation is slipping, John.” He shifted languorously, the bare skin of his chest brushing against John’s as he shifted his position on the bed. “I seem to recall your grasp of proper consonants was much improved when I was fellating you,” he continued, voice still sinfully deep. “I believe you called me ‘gorgeous’ and told me—repeatedly—how good I was, how fantastic my tongue felt, how you couldn't wait to come down my throat…’Goddamn fucking genius,’ was nice…and I’m glad to know you consider me a deity.”

“FFfhhhhhaaaaa,” John managed, as Sherlock dragged his nose along the top of John’s left thigh, before nuzzling at the inside of his left knee, followed by his right.

“I speak seven languages, though, John,” Sherlock continued, tongue extending to lave slowly across John’s sweat-dewed skin. “And I know you speak two—German and English, with a smattering of Arabic, Swahili, and Pashto.” He licked his lips, relishing the flavor of John’s sweat. “As an experiment, would you like to see how many times you can utter my praises without resorting to English?”

“Mwwwaaaa…wewe genius….” John replied with a groan as Sherlock lowered his head again.

~*~


	6. Luxury socks make the man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hartwin headcannon for Venvephe: Eggsy’s always grown up with the cheapest, most horrible polyester socks, because that’s the only type his mum could afford. Harry takes the deprived young man sock-shopping and introduces him to the joy of quality socks…silk, sea island cotton, extra fine Merino wool, cashmere, Marcoliani and Bresciani and all the best brands. Eggsy promptly introduces Harry to the joys of foot jobs.

~*~

“Woof!” Eggsy breathed, looking up at the gold letters decorating the storefront’s awning. “Posh place, innet? What are we buying here? Lockpicking toothpicks? Exploding cufflinks?”

“Nothing so…business-minded,” Harry replied, hooking his umbrella over his arm as he reached up to adjust his glasses. He gave the younger man an affectionate smile. “This is rather more personal in nature. I noticed the other night when you showered at my house that you have the most appalling taste in undergarments. We’re going to remedy that situation.”

“Not my fault,” Eggsy retorted. “Not all of us grew up with our posh own tailor. Hanes and Jack & Jones did the job well enough. Kept my bits in the right place and all, rather than floppin’ about when I was doing gym.” “Understandable,” Harry agreed, “but considering your new position, you shouldn’t let past poverty prevent you from enjoying the finer things in life.”

“Like what? Kobe beef and Macallan Whiskey?” Eggsy leered. “You gonna buy me a pair of silk knickers then, Harry?”

“Better,” Harry replied, pulling open the door. “I’m going to introduce you to the joys of luxury gentlemen’s socks!”


	7. "Wikipedia" for PharaonicWolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet prompted by a comment made on The Andidiogenes Club: "Imagine Sherlock editing Wikipedia..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the prompt, [PharaonicWolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PharaonicWolf/pseuds/PharaonicWolf)!

~*~ 

“Sherlock?” John asked, pausing in the threshold at the sight of the figure snarling at his laptop. He'd spent the last forty-eight hours at the hospital, comforting a weeping Clare, and it didn't look like the dark-haired man had moved in the entire time John'd been gone. He was still wearing his pajamas and the only evidence that the detective had eaten or drunk anything during that time were the half-filled cups of tea sitting on the coffee table beside him. “What’re you working on? A new case?” 

“People are idiots, John!” 

“So you’ve said before,” John replied, calmly taking a sip of his own, freshly-brewed tea, courtesy of their beloved, 'not-your-housekeeper-dear!' landlady. John tilted his head, taking in the horrendously disheveled state of his mad flat mate’s hair and the number of nicotine patches currently plastered on the lanky man's forearms, and winced. 

It was bad.

It was Mycroft-invading-before-morning-tea-after-a-week-of-no-cases-and-incessant-boredom bad.

Time for some intervention then.

John sighed. Pity, that. He’d rather been rather looking forward to a relaxing evening after spending two days listening to his sister continuing to blame him for her problems and the other doctor's rather grim prognosis if Harry didn't change her drinking habits. He should have known better to expect an evening of quiet domesticity though, considering who he lived with.

“Okay,” John said, draining his tea and setting Mrs. Hudson's china cup safely out of throwing range on a patch of miraculously-empty kitchen table. “What’s got you all wound up then? Is it Anderson again? Did Mycroft stop by while I was gone?” 

“Worse,” Sherlock growled. "I've come to accept Anderson's specific brand of idiocy and Mycroft is currently gone due to Wimbledon. WRONG, WRONG WRONG!” he howled suddenly, stabbing his finger at the screen before letting loose with a rapid flurry of typing. 

John blinked, before very cautiously stepping forward and reading over Sherlock’s shoulder. Soldiers navigating through land-mine strewn roadways took less care. “Wikipedia?” He read aloud, turning to look at Sherlock with pursed lips, sandy eyebrows rising over blue eyes. “You’re editing Wikipedia?” 

“I would be,” Sherlock snarled, stabbing at the keyboard again viscously, “if the idiot editors would quit blocking me and revising my corrections. I’m a genius!” he shouted at the screen, firing off another burst of text interspersed with a number of creative insults. “These idiots wouldn’t recognize proper scientific procedure or primary chemical reactions if their lives depended on it and they were given the assistance of a remedial chemistry teacher and a copy of the of Lavoisier’s _Traité Élémentaire de Chimie!”_

“Right then,” John replied, backing away slowly and reaching for his phone to text Greg. 

Solider training or no, he was going to need help on this one.

~*~


	8. "John...where are my pants?!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turnabout is fair play...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt I wrote myself in 2013.

“Jooooohhhnnn!” came the irate yell from Sherlock’s bedroom.

The blond man in question didn’t so much as blink. Sherlock’s yell was not the ‘I’m-bleeding-and-need-your-medical-expertise’ variety. Nor was it the ‘I’m-currently-being-throttled-by-a-seven-foot-tall-Russian-Valkyrie variety. It hadn’t even approached the ‘John-come-help-me-clean-this-up-before-Mrs.-Hudson-returns-and-holds-my-violin-hostage’ decibel level, which was a decidedly dangerous tone to ignore, (as John had learned from previous bitter experience). Instead, it was somewhere between ‘Anderson opened his mouth’ and ‘Bored!’, which was normal when living with a deductive genius who had the attention span and patience of a toddler. 

Estimating that he had about sixty seconds left before his incredibly irate flatmate appeared to yell at him in person, John took a final sip of his tea before exchanging the warm mug for a nearby biro. “Rhinorrhea,” he muttered, filling in the squares neatly. Tapping the end of the pen against his bottom lip, John narrowed his eyes in concentration as he read the next clue only to give up with a resigned sigh as, right on schedule, Sherlock stormed out of his bedroom and ripped the sheets of newsprint from his hands. 

“John,” the dark haired detective growled, looming over the shorter man in blatant disregard of the other’s personal space. “Where. Are. My. Pants?”

John raised his eyebrows, giving the scowling brunette an innocent look. “Oh, missing those, are you?” He exchanged the biro for his mug and took another leisurely sip of tea. “Shame really. Makes it a bit hard to get dressed, doesn’t it?”

“John!”

“Course you could, you know, go commando,” John observed, gesturing with his mostly-empty mug. “Bit uncomfortable when running, no matter what the Scots think, but you’ll cope.”

“My pants, John!” Sherlock demanded, wrenching the mug out of John’s hand. “Where are they?”

The blond gave his stolen tea mug a wistful look before looking up to meet Sherlock’s angry eyes. “To answer your question, they’re being held hostage until you get your scientific arse down to the shops and buy me properly sized--and coloured mind you!--replacements for the fifteen ruined pairs you left in the bathtub yesterday.”

‘It was for a case!”

“That’s a convenient excuse, but it doesn’t change the fact that I had to go to work without yesterday, you thieving berk! Turnabout’s fair play.”

“That is over £360 of handmade, bespoke silk, John!” 

“I know,” the shorter man smirked, enjoying Sherlock’s appalled expression as he reached down and adjusted himself in his off-the-rack jeans. “They’re quite comfortable.”


	9. Chopsticks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has rather nimble toes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found this in my writing blurbs folder. Sharing it here.

~*~

In hindsight, John knew he really shouldn’t have been surprised. Sherlock constantly blindsided him with the little bits of random knowledge or paraphernalia he’d accumulated in his pursuit of The Work. 

Three kirby grips, (one sharpened to a point), and a Monkey Business Clippa tucked close to his scalp, hidden in his nest of riotous curls? Check, (and hadn’t that proved handy for escaping during a rather major miscalculation during a case that involved a stuffed pigeon, an antique cufflink, an estranged grandmother, her disgruntled granddaughter, and an abandoned coal mine). Knowing how to create smokebombs, firestarters and poisonous gasses out of innumerable combinations of household chemicals? Also check (much to Mrs. Hudson's continued suffering). 

In-depth knowledge of tobacco ash had nothing on Sherlock’s mental library of the addresses, operating hours, favors owed, and kitchen escape routes for an innumerable number of London’s eateries.

But this? This was bizarre, even for a man who routinely kept sheep entrails in their bathtub (despite John’s rather vocal protestations on the subject).

“Sherlock…” the blond asked, lowering the dumpling he’d just picked up back to his plate, “did you just pick up your chopsticks with your toes?”

“Obviously yes,” the brunet retorted. He popped a piece of garlic shrimp into his mouth and tilted his head in puzzlement. “Problem?”

“More like what the _fuck?!_ ”

“Harry Houdini, John. You should study him. Or if you want somebody more current, Tisha UnArmed.” 

John scrubbed a hand over his mouth, disgust warring with fascination as he watched Sherlock’s disturbingly nimble toes manipulate the bamboo sticks with ease. “Boredom or case?” he said after a moment.

“Neither. It was education.” Sherlock frowned. “Pass me the soy sauce, would you? I can’t reach the bottle; my leg won’t stretch that far.”

“You realize it’s a good thing we’re in our flat, yeah?” John grumbled as he passed the bottle over, removing the cap for hygiene’s sake. “I don’t know how many health codes you’re violating right now.”

~*~


	10. "Wanna go for a ride?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So…I sat down the other night to work on the Ch. 19 ‘The Devil’s Blaze’ and the Muse said “Nope. You spent the day working on cars. Instead of thinking about cowboys and biological horses, you should think about reversing ‘Greaser!lock and having John Watson be the sex god with a classic muscle car instead.” So here is the first half of the one-shot that resulted!_

~*~

“You should just ask him, dear,” Mrs. Hudson commented from where she was wiping down tables beside the cafe’s main window.

“Ask who what?” Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance as he carefully transferred freshly-baked peach scones to the nearly-empty trays filling the bakery case. “Also, do we have any more kolache in the back? The apple ones topped with posipka were popular, as were the farmer cheese ones.” The morning’s business had been brisk, seriously depleting their stocks. If the after-lunch rush was similar, they might well run out of baked goods before closing. 

“Yes we do, and don’t play dumb with me, young man,” Mrs. Hudson scolded, walking around the counter to give Sherlock’s arse a swat with the wet bar wipe she held in one hand. The sudden ‘snap’ made Sherlock yelp in surprise and he almost brained himself on the underside of the bakery case jerking upright. “The nice looking blond boy you keep looking at out front–the one with the ‘66 red Mustang coupe,” Mrs. Hudson continued, undeterred by the glare Sherlock was giving her.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are referring to,” Sherlock huffed, wrapping his dignity around what remained of his wounded pride. “Now if you are finished harassing me, I have coffee beans that I need to grind.”

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said, folding her arms and giving Sherlock a reproving look. “In all of the years I’ve known you, you’ve never been much for waking up before two in the afternoon on the weekends, but then you came in to help me that Saturday both Philip and Jim called in sick and you haven’t missed a first-Saturday-of-the-month shift since…which happens to be the same day that the Medway Motors Club likes to have their monthly promenade and informal car showing here. Not that I mind, mind you. They all have healthy appetites, which is good for business, and I do enjoy seeing the young ones get all excited. Like those two there,” Mrs. Hudson said, pointing out the slim brunette woman, her tall, prematurely-balding spouse and the boy and girl with them. 

Against his will, Sherlock found himself looking. The boy was almost jumping up and down in excitement as he tugged on his father’s hand, (clearly trying to lead his father somewhere), while the little girl banged enthusiastically on the horn of a dark green 1948 MG-TC Roadster under the indulgent eye of the owner. “Humph,” Sherlock sniffed. “More likely they are excited because they have consumed large amounts of sugar.”

“I must admit, he’s very fit,” Mrs. Hudson remarked, tilting her head to one side and nodding appreciatively as the young man in question bent over the open hood of his car and began to tinker with something. “Especially in those blue jeans and that white vest–he reminds me a bit of that American boy–James Dean. Or maybe that other looker, Timothy Carlton. He’s a bit young for me, but I can certainly see why you’ve been watching him.”

“Thank you, that is quite enough, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock announced, trying (and failing) to suppress his mortified flush, (even though Mrs. Hudson was correct: the tight jeans stretched across the Mustang-owners arse did make for a very eye-catching visual). Sherlock tried to duck past Mrs. Hudson, and retreat to the safety of the kitchen, but Mrs. Hudson–perhaps anticipating his escape blocked the entrance with her body. 

“Go on, dear. Take him a pastry and a hot cuppa,” Mrs. Hudson ordered, stuffing the aforementioned items into Sherlock’s hands and practically shoving Sherlock out the door.

[end of part one]


End file.
